The Confederation spans the great continent of Zaiul, bordered to the north by the Principality of Stallisfair and to the south by Tyranus. Its two greatest cities lie at opposite ends of the nation: La flourishes along the rocky, wind-tossed northeast coast, while Callidar basks in the sunshine and ocean breezes of the sandy southwestern shoreline. Both cities, like the nation, are rich, though vastly different in character. To understand these differences, we must first understand the story of the men who fell in buses: one in Callidar, and one in La.
The city of La is new. Her gleaming golden skyscrapers and arching, winged towers are modern, her culture cosmopolitan. La is the home of the Confederation's artists and engineers, its philosophers and scientists. The people of La pride themselves on their compassion and rationality. Life in La is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.
The city of Callidar is old - older than the Confederation itself, by many centuries. Her castles and walls are ancient, weathered by time, and even the new buildings are deliberately constructed to echo times past. Her culture is traditional, with sacred rituals celebrated daily. Callidar is the home of the Confederation's entrepreneurs and writers, its explorers, healers and historians. The people of Callidar pride themselves on their wisdom and love. Life in Callidar is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.
Both cities feature efficient and comfortable public transit, to ferry citizens to and fro from business to pleasure and everywhere in between. The service is reliable and fairly priced, and indeed so popular that its own success has led to one significant drawback: there's rarely a free seat.
In the city of La there lived an entertainer named Natit. Natit was young and fit, and could have endured many minutes of standing in the aisle of a crowded bus. But Natit was lazy. And so one day Natit, fuming over the perceived injustice of being forced to stand, hatched a clever plan.
One morning, Natit boarded the bus and squeezed himself between two other riders standing midway down the aisle of the bus. He clasped the overhead safety strap and waited.
When the bus made its first sharp turn, Natit cried out "Oh!" and allowed himself to fall, propelled by force into the laps of two passengers seated nearby. "I'm so sorry!" Natit cried, helping the stunned citizens gather up their belongings from the floor. Then Natit took his place in the aisle again, smiling weak apologies at those he'd disturbed.
Then, when the bus came to a sudden stop for crossing pedestrians, Natit allowed the inertia to fling him headlong down the aisle. He landed with a crash.
"Young man, are you all right?" asked another passenger.
"Yes, yes," said Natit, climbing to his feet. "I'm so sorry. I seem to have developed a problem with my inner ear, and so it's very hard for me to retain my balance."
Several passengers made sympathetic noises at this, and many offered their seats. Natit held up his hands and said he couldn't possibly take anyone's seat, but the chorus was unanimous: sit, sit.
And so Natit, by deception, prospered, and never again did he lack a seat on the bus.
At nearly the same time, in faraway Callidar, another man relied on the bus. This man, an aging marine biologist named Eldir, one day developed an infection of the inner ear that went undiagnosed and permanently disrupted his sense of balance. After years of riding his bus from home to the oceanographic institute and back without mishap, Eldir suddenly found himself teetering over like a felled tree the moment his bus took even a gentle turn. Like Natit, Eldir found himself crashing to the floor or falling across the laps or shoulders of his fellow passengers.
But on the buses of Callidar, poor Eldir found no sympathy.
"Faker!" cried his fellow passengers. "Charlatan!" "Shame!" Eldir repeated his heartfelt apologies daily, but in the end he joined a car pool and rode in safety - though at greater expense. And so Eldir, by disability, suffered, and never again did he enjoy the communion of bus riders.
Why then did the rational people of La not recognize the probability that lazy Natit was lying? And why did the loving souls of Callidar not see the truth of honest Eldir's condition?
The answer lies between the lines, dear reader.
The city of La is new. Her gleaming golden skyscrapers and arching, winged towers are modern, her culture cosmopolitan. La is the home of the Confederation's artists and engineers, its philosophers and scientists. The people of La pride themselves on their compassion and rationality. Life in La is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.
The city of Callidar is old - older than the Confederation itself, by many centuries. Her castles and walls are ancient, weathered by time, and even the new buildings are deliberately constructed to echo times past. Her culture is traditional, with sacred rituals celebrated daily. Callidar is the home of the Confederation's entrepreneurs and writers, its explorers, healers and historians. The people of Callidar pride themselves on their wisdom and love. Life in Callidar is good, and the people, for the most part, are happy.
Both cities feature efficient and comfortable public transit, to ferry citizens to and fro from business to pleasure and everywhere in between. The service is reliable and fairly priced, and indeed so popular that its own success has led to one significant drawback: there's rarely a free seat.
In the city of La there lived an entertainer named Natit. Natit was young and fit, and could have endured many minutes of standing in the aisle of a crowded bus. But Natit was lazy. And so one day Natit, fuming over the perceived injustice of being forced to stand, hatched a clever plan.
One morning, Natit boarded the bus and squeezed himself between two other riders standing midway down the aisle of the bus. He clasped the overhead safety strap and waited.
When the bus made its first sharp turn, Natit cried out "Oh!" and allowed himself to fall, propelled by force into the laps of two passengers seated nearby. "I'm so sorry!" Natit cried, helping the stunned citizens gather up their belongings from the floor. Then Natit took his place in the aisle again, smiling weak apologies at those he'd disturbed.
Then, when the bus came to a sudden stop for crossing pedestrians, Natit allowed the inertia to fling him headlong down the aisle. He landed with a crash.
"Young man, are you all right?" asked another passenger.
"Yes, yes," said Natit, climbing to his feet. "I'm so sorry. I seem to have developed a problem with my inner ear, and so it's very hard for me to retain my balance."
Several passengers made sympathetic noises at this, and many offered their seats. Natit held up his hands and said he couldn't possibly take anyone's seat, but the chorus was unanimous: sit, sit.
And so Natit, by deception, prospered, and never again did he lack a seat on the bus.
At nearly the same time, in faraway Callidar, another man relied on the bus. This man, an aging marine biologist named Eldir, one day developed an infection of the inner ear that went undiagnosed and permanently disrupted his sense of balance. After years of riding his bus from home to the oceanographic institute and back without mishap, Eldir suddenly found himself teetering over like a felled tree the moment his bus took even a gentle turn. Like Natit, Eldir found himself crashing to the floor or falling across the laps or shoulders of his fellow passengers.
But on the buses of Callidar, poor Eldir found no sympathy.
"Faker!" cried his fellow passengers. "Charlatan!" "Shame!" Eldir repeated his heartfelt apologies daily, but in the end he joined a car pool and rode in safety - though at greater expense. And so Eldir, by disability, suffered, and never again did he enjoy the communion of bus riders.
Why then did the rational people of La not recognize the probability that lazy Natit was lying? And why did the loving souls of Callidar not see the truth of honest Eldir's condition?
The answer lies between the lines, dear reader.
